Mistakes
by SwnyTddObsd
Summary: The Honourable Judge Turpin has sentenced the once lucky barber Benjamin Barker to life in prison at Botany Bay. Fifteen years later, he returns to London, full of rage. What in the whole wide world could have changed him as it did?


_Well, I've uploaded and re-uploaded this document approximately seven times before I realized there was an "edit" option. I'm sorry if you read this before and you were confused. I didn't know... But thanks for returning!_

I feel horrible. I am a terrible person. XP. Okay. So. I wrote this in a short amount of time, less than two and a half hours, I hope. I procrastinate, and I'm STILL not done with the second chapter of The Thief, which was deleted from my computer mysteriously BEFORE I emptied my Recycle bin, which I feel merits a much deserved smack upside the head.

I don't own Sweeney Todd, which is a fact that could make me cry ;( I don't own Benjamin Barker, nor do I own the _concept_ of a pre-Sweeney Benjamin-Nellie pairing, though I DO own my own version of the story (Lucy or Nellie? by SweeneyToddObssessor (YES, there's a difference in the spelling)), as well as whatever I touch upon here. Any reference I make is either mine or not, which was always the case from the beginning. Anyway, my point is, this is my own version of Benjamin Barker's prison days, which I hope will receive enough reviews up to December to keep me motivated. Who knows? If I can scrape together two more, I might write a second chapter! (Thanks to NelliethePieAngel and Roselize!) So if you thought it was even slightly decently put together, please, a small blurb will do just fine.

Thanks!

STO2

* * *

_Mistakes_

The guard is merciless.

His sharp eyes seem as though they have been narrowed for so long, his suspicion is perpetual. Perhaps it is. The veins in his hand twitch constantly as he grips his pistol tightly, almost as if he expects trouble to be lurking around the corner. Between this and his grizzled gray hair, it's all a testimony to many long and hard years as a prison guard. The sound of his wooden boot heels clack with unusual clarity through the simultaneous groans of the ship's timbers and the soon-to-be inmates. He knows this to be true, as he had his boots custom-made for that purpose alone. Before the trip is over, he wants the prisoners to fear the sound of a guard's approach.

He averts his eyes from the floor, ignoring the rare upturned protruding hands that shake in fear and more common twitching fingers as men cower by the foot of their doors by the low bars in their doors, trying to beg pity from him, trying to turn the heart they so misguidedly believe the passing man to have. As he passes a door by a poorly lit lantern, he blinks in surprise as a hand actually grabs the hem of his pants.

"Please," whispers the man inside. His voice is hoarse from use, from screaming every night as the sounds of a prison reaches his ears, from begging innocence to every man he meets, from crying out in his dreams to his lost life and abandoned life, from prayers long forgotten to the God he had abandoned in his golden times, from weeping as he approached the dock, from shouting his innocence to the empty darkness of his cell, from the saltwater that seeped into his mouth whenever he fell as the ship lurched beneath his feet. His visage is pale and pressed against the bars. His once clean-shaven face is covered in bristly stubble and his long nut-brown hair has grown tangled and wild, though he has not lost mild traces of his handsome features. This is the disheveled and once great barber, Benjamin Barker.

The guard does not know this, nor does he wish to. He sees, with mild surprise, that the shackles around Barker's wrist have not broken as he thought they might have. Rather, Barker has taken advantage of the bars set in his door. One had fallen out years ago, a last desperate attempt from the last man with spirit aboard that specific shipment, and so another desperate attempt was made aboard this one.

Benjamin had forced both his rather brawny arms through the larger hole, waiting, blind, his arms losing blood as his head grew woozy. He had not heard the sound of the guard walking, who actually had stepped right into his hands. By instinct his hand had curled around the damp cloth, and his brain had prickled with slight adrenaline, enough to awaken him. His dull croak is automatic, his mind sluggish and helpless.

Speaking makes his tongue brush the sides of his mouth, flooding his brain with unpleasant briny tastes. He gags reflexively, silently. The guard waits through the silence that is filled with too many sounds and decides this one is not worth the trouble, and starts to walk away.

"No!"

The word is more of a feeble wheeze of air than a shout. The guard whirls around out of instinct, cords of muscle rising from the back of his hand as he squeezes the handle of his pistol. Benjamin waves his limp hands weakly from through the bars, hoping the dim light supplied by the few working lanterns in the hall illuminate his pale sea-soaked hands.

"Please. Sir," Benjamin rasps. "Please, have some understanding." The guard's curiosity prickles at these words. Perhaps the man has a tale to tell, a worthwhile statement among all the gibberish that panted from the froth flecked lips of the mad. Benjamin's heart lifts at the clicks that he can now distinguish from the general roar of blood in his ears.

"Sir," he begins again. "There's been a terrible mistake, a horrible and total misun—"

The guard turns sharply to face the opposite direction from which he had just been walking. Though Benjamin cannot see, his face is tight again, carefully controlled, but lacking enough to keep his eyes steady. All Benjamin can hear is the grind of the heels against the grains of the sodden, rotting planks. The guard breathes in deeply, inhaling with shuddering gasps that seem to feebly strengthen themselves. Seconds, then minutes, pass as the waves slosh against the single layer of wooden planks that separates Benjamin from crushing tides of water. When the guard finally speaks, his voice cuts through the air like a well-whetted knife.

"No," he spits with undisguised disgust. "No. There are no mistakes." Benjamin's heart sinks with each syllable, lower and lower, slinking further within him like a frightened dog. He knows there will be no pity from this man.

The guard turns again, facing Benjamin again. He approaches the door, and through of the instinct of a caged beast, Benjamin knows to shy away from the footsteps.

The low voice, which sounds just as hoarse as Benjamin's, grates even more roughly to Benjamin's ears.

"There are no mistakes. You have made your own decisions. Live with your own consequences." His wheezing humorless laugh falls flat, bland and unmoving. It does not fit the look of barely controlled rage that flits across his features when Barker still stares emptily at the guard's feet.

Benjamin does not notice as the pellet of spit that barely misses his face, the remaining spray splattered across his cheek, nor does he take any notice of the guard sauntering away. The hollow feeling within his stomach makes him want to retch, but at the same time, he does not want to do so, to allow such nausea to consume him. He sits on the floor, unfeeling, withdrawn, alone among an imaginary crowd.

A lone lantern creaks shrilly as the ship lurches again.

"I DIDN'T DO IT!" he roars suddenly, the scream burning his throat in a most satisfying way. The thrum at the back of his throat buzzes comfortably. "I DIDN'T! HEAR ME! I DIDN'T!" The guard does not return, but Benjamin is no longer speaking to him alone. His heart throbs within him, tortuously forcing his words through his now-clenched teeth, bitter statements that smolder with their unfair truths. "I have done nothing to merit disdain. I have done nothing to break a law. I know, I know now, what I fool I was to believe that that was all there was to life. But I also know that none of this was my own doing. Turpin was behind it all. Turpin and his dog, the beadle. They will pay," he rambles. As he speaks, he staggers back to his feet as the floor shifts beneath him like a monstrously large cradle. His eyes are blind even without the darkness that smothers him, and the words begin to choke upon themselves. He is lost in mourning, too far gone to control his mouth, and his words begin to shrill again.

"For every day, every hour, every minute, every second, they will pay," he vows to his cot, which he has fallen face first onto. His fingers curl around the far edge and he pulls himself on so he fits well on the moldy straw mattress that reeks of salt and sweat. His words are muffled but he cannot stop speaking. "They will pay. Pay for every bit of time that passes when I am away from my Lucy, my dearest, sweetest Lucy and Nellie, my genteel Lucy, my laughing Nellie, they will both pay dearly for the time I have spent, I will spend. I must personally…"

His mutters die off, and his hands fall limp to the floor. He does not stir again.

-----------------

_Through a fevered haze, Benjamin could see her face. She smiled quite grimly, but all in all, she was still beautiful enough to turn the daffodils red with envy. He smirked to himself at the old phrase, and turned to face her fully. The brown curls frame her pale skinned cheeks, and her hands looked worn but gentle as she reached out for his hand. The upwards quirk of her full pink lips made the corners of his own lift in a feral baring of his teeth, some grotesque mockery of that gentle countenance. He gladly extended his own, unquestioning of the floating and fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach. As their fingers brushed, though, the first face melted away. From the featureless mess came the face of perfect despair. The now-golden haired woman pulled away from him, horror written over her face, her clear blue eyes shining with pity. Her hand was pure and unmarred by the world, but as he reached a little further she clutched her own to herself in her distaste. Benjamin looked down and saw, but did not feel, blood slowly seeping from the lines of his palm to drip onto the unseen ground, puddles of crimson life spilling from his very hands. The pools slipped through invisible cracks and seeped down into the unseen ground below, but as he reached out for the woman, she cast him one last look and ran into the darkness he had not noticed until then. The blood began to trickle from his neck, his ears, his nose, each part of his body slowly draining the whole of its juice. He opened his mouth to call for her, but gorge rises from the depths of his stomach, and a red curtain falls over his vision as the intangible liquid spills down from his scalp._

With a lurch, his eyelids flick open, and he realizes he has fallen off his cot and is currently retching emptily onto the floorboards of the Bountiful next to his head. The mouldy bread and water that comes back up his throat, mixed with bitter bile, drives his dream away into the forbidden depths of his slowly collapsing mind, but he does not mind as he tries to keep his beaten, shuddering, uncooperative body together.

The lantern no longer creaks.

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All too late, I must plead for your forgiveness. I needed an introductory chapter and I feel as though I've tricked you into reading it. But if you liked it… You know the drill.

Oh, and if you read this far, perhaps just PM me as to what you think should happen next. I fear more character building, but then… Oh well, I guess I would need that. Not like Barker should be too isolated, no?

**And remember…**

_**Scraww, pretty Button. Button needs a click, button needs a click. Right here. Right here.**_


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